While we waited for the saleswoman to bring out the earrings, Foster and I wandered the store. He challenged me to a game. He asked me to pick out my favorite ring and he’d try to guess which one it was.
He found it on his first guess.
Because out of all the elaborate, glittering rings, he’d known I’d pick something simple and delicate.
A ring I could take on and off with ease. A ring I could wear on a chain around my neck at work without the stone digging into my skin. A ring that would look beautiful on my finger, even when my skin was chapped and dry from frequent handwashing and disposable gloves.
That had been a week before he’d told me he was marrying Vivienne.
A week before he’d shattered my heart.
He couldn’t move here. He couldn’t live in Montana. We’d cross paths. There was no way we wouldn’t run into each other on Main or at a store. Quincy was too small to avoid a man like Foster. Somehow, I had to convince him to leave. Somehow.
But first, I needed to clear my head. I needed to sort out my heart. So this morning after showering and eating a quick breakfast, I’d left the house and come to the place where I’d always found peace.
Home.
Driving in my black Jeep Wrangler, I eased down the lane to Mom and Dad’s, passing under the Eden Ranch gated archway. Beyond the fences bordering the road, the snow-covered meadows stretched for miles. Evergreens covered the mountain foothills, their branches dusted in white.
A green tractor with a round bale in its forks rolled through the pasture beyond my window. A line of black Angus cows trotted behind it, each wearing the Eden brand on their ribs—an E above a curve in the shape of a rocking chair’s runner.
I loved the ranch. I loved the open spaces and the family legacy and the animals. Throughout my childhood, I’d planned on becoming a veterinarian. I’d wanted to specialize in large animals so I could help out on the ranch with cattle and horses.
Until my junior year in high school and a wintery night had changed my destiny.
My English teacher, Mrs. Haskins, had been eight months pregnant at the time and only days away from taking her maternity leave. It had been March and a massive snowstorm had blown into town. The weather forecast hadn’t predicted its severity. One moment, we were watching heavy flakes fall to the ground, and the next, a sheer whiteout. Most roads were closed for emergency travel only, and since my family lived in the country, it was impossible for my parents to drive in and get us.
So my twin sister, Lyla, and I rounded up our younger siblings, Mateo and Eloise, to wait it out. Mrs. Haskins volunteered her house as a place for us to stay until the storm died down.
We trudged the two blocks to her home and all hunkered inside. Her husband worked for the transportation department and was out driving a snowplow, so she was happy for our company.
Until her contractions started.
We called 9-1-1 for an ambulance, but by the time they arrived, I was holding a slimy newborn baby girl in my arms.
I’d never been so scared in my life.
Maybe I’d had the courage to help because I’d been so focused on the veterinarian path. I’d watched Dad pull plenty of calves. But from that moment on, my path had changed.
Mom always said becoming a doctor had been my calling.
What if I’d gotten it wrong? What if I should have stayed here, worked here? I wouldn’t have to deal with the Rachels of the world. And I wouldn’t have met Foster.
I shook off those doubts as I neared the house. The ranch was bustling with activity this morning, the hired men getting ready to head out for their day. As a truck passed with a couple of guys in the cab, I waved, then parked beside Mom’s new Cadillac.
Every year, Dad bought her the latest model. This time, he’d gotten her an Escalade because she’d insisted on plenty of space to keep car seats for her grandkids.
“Talia.” Griffin was crossing Mom and Dad’s porch as I hopped out of my Jeep.
“Hi.” I smiled, meeting him at the base of the steps.
In one hand, Griff had a travel mug. The other he held in the air, making space for a sideways hug. He smelled like wind and soap with a hint of campfire, probably from the stove at his place. With every passing day, he reminded me more and more of Dad.
“You look tired. You okay?” he asked. Griff had taken it upon himself as the oldest sibling to make sure we were all okay. Again, a lot like Dad.
“Good,” I lied. The dark circles beneath my eyes were from two sleepless nights spent tossing and turning about Foster. “What are you up to?”
“Just dropped off the kids.” He let me go and hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Mom’s babysitting today while I head out and get some firewood split. What about you? Not working today?”
“No. I’m on call all weekend, so I’ve got today off.” My schedule was erratic at best. The standard shifts were reserved for Dr. Anderson, and the rest of us filled in the gaps. “I thought I’d come out and take Neptune for a ride. Dad said you had most of the horses still gathered in from after they got reshod.”
“Yeah, they’re all in the calving pasture. I’ll have one of the guys bring her into the stables and get her saddled for you.”
“I can do it.”
“It’ll save you the trouble. Head on in. Get some coffee and one of Mom’s muffins. Neptune will be ready in thirty.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “That will give me time with the kids.”
“See you later.” Griff set off for the barn.
The Eden Ranch was one of the largest in the state, generations of our family having built it up. Griffin’s heart belonged to Winslow and their two babies. But beyond his family, my brother loved this land.
I couldn’t imagine him in a suit and tie, working in an office. He belonged in a faded pair of Wranglers and scuffed cowboy boots with a canvas Carhartt coat on his back and a dusty Stetson on his head.
The scent of hay and cattle drifted on the gentle breeze as I headed up the porch steps to my childhood home. My parents had both retired in recent years but this house would always feel like ranch headquarters. Past their log home was the barn my grandfather had built. Beside it were the stables and the shop, additions Dad had made when he’d been at the helm.
I pushed open the front door and inhaled sugar and blueberries and lemon. Did it smell better inside or out? They were both home. “Hello!”
“Talia, will you bring me that five-gallon bucket of flour beside the door?” Mom hollered.
“Sure.” I shrugged off my coat and hung it on an iron hook in the entryway, then hefted the bucket by its handle and waddled it down the hall. “Where do you want it?”
“By the pantry, please.” She pointed with a dough-covered finger.
I set it down, then moved around the island to inspect whatever it was she was making. “Pie? Smells good.”
“I’m getting a jump on Christmas prep. This will go in the freezer.” She kissed my cheek, then went to the sink to wash up. “What are you doing today?”
“Thought I’d come out and go for a ride.”
What I loved most about my parents’ house was that the lock on the front door hadn’t been turned in decades. They didn’t expect phone calls before we showed up. They were used to unannounced visitors and not once had they made me feel like I was interrupting.